Page 43 of Warlord’s Plaything

43

HIRA

T he tunnels are too quiet.

The battle above still rages—I can hear the distant echoes of war, the screams of the dying, the roar of flames consuming what’s left of Herox.

But down here?

Down here, in the cold dark beneath the ruins of a broken clan?—

There is nothing.

Just the shuffle of exhausted feet. The ragged sound of breathing. The soft, choked sobs of men who just lost everything.

And me?—

Sitting in the fucking dirt, with blood-stiffened clothes, a hollow chest, and hands that won’t stop shaking.

Sella and Dagen are gone.

I keep saying it in my head, but it doesn’t feel real.

Like if I think about it enough, maybe it won’t be true.

Maybe I’ll crawl out of this hole and they’ll be waiting for me, grinning, calling me a stubborn bitch like they always do.

But they’re not.

And they never will be again.

I failed them.

I wasn’t strong enough.

Because for all the power that coursed through my veins, for all the magic I unleashed, for all the fucking devastation I left in my wake?—

I still couldn’t save them.

"Hira."

The voice cuts through the fog.

I don’t look up.

He’s been watching me from across the chamber for the last hour.

He’s given me space. Time.

But I don’t deserve it.

I don’t deserve any fucking kindness.

"We need to talk."

"No, we don’t."

I barely recognize my own voice. Hoarse. Flat. Dead.

My hands clench into fists against my thighs, fingernails digging into skin, pain the only thing anchoring me right now.

Xyron doesn’t move.

He stands just far enough away that I can pretend he’s not waiting for me to crack.

But I can feel him—his heat, his presence, the fucking intensity of his gaze.

Like he’s trying to hold me together through sheer force of will.

Like he knows what I’m thinking.

Like he knows I’m drowning.

"Stop acting like you’re the only one suffering."

Something inside me snaps.

The grief. The exhaustion. The guilt. The rage.

It all collides at once.

I push to my feet so fast my vision swims.

"I was supposed to protect them, Xyron." My breath heaves, fists still clenched. "I was supposed to get them out! I was supposed to ? —"

The words choke, catch, die in my throat.

The truth is—I don’t know what I was supposed to do anymore.

Nothing I did was enough.

I thought I was a leader, a warrior, a goddamn warlord?—

But all I am is a girl standing in the dark, covered in the blood of the people who trusted her.

"You think I don’t feel the same?" Xyron steps forward, voice low, dark, edged with something sharp.

"You think I don’t blame myself? I couldn’t even grieve my father."

His gaze is unrelenting, fierce, furious.

"I should have seen Kaelith’s trap. I should have known. I should have ? —"

He cuts himself off. Jaw tight. Hands shaking.

We don’t talk, the tension enough to speak for us.

What the fuck do you even say in this kind of situation?

It doesn’t matter.

We can list our failures over and over, carve them into our fucking bones?—

But it won’t bring them back.

It won’t undo the dead.

"I don’t know what to do, Xyron."

The confession is quiet.

Small.

Pathetic.

I don’t even realize I’ve said it until I feel him move—until I feel the warmth of his palm curling around the back of my neck, grounding me, steadying me.

"We survive," he says simply. "We find a way. We always do."

I squeeze my eyes shut. A deep inhale. A slow, shaking exhale.

His fingers tighten just slightly—just enough to remind me that I’m not alone.

And fuck, I hate how much I need that right now.

But then?—

The whisper of voices.

The soft, exhausted murmurs of the men who followed us down here.

The last remnants of our army.

The last threads of the rebellion.

They’re waiting.

For me.

For us.

For a sign that this fight isn’t over.

For a reason to keep going.

My grief doesn’t matter.

My guilt doesn’t matter.

Not right now.

They still need me.

If I break, they all break with me.

And that is not an option.

I straighten.

Push past the raw ache in my ribs, the weight pressing down on my chest.

I turn away from Xyron’s touch, even though part of me wants to stay there forever.

"We need a plan."

I say it loud enough for the others to hear.

Loud enough to force myself to believe it.

I lift my chin.

I lock my shoulders.

I am Hira.

I am a goddamn gladiator.

And I am not fucking done yet.